Accidental Magic (Damned Mercenaries #2)

Prologue

RUNE

The sizzle and spark of magic dances along my skin, making my tattoos glow in a way that only other magic users can see.

It’s the mage equivalent of waving a big dick around.

The intricate designs that shine like blue embers, snaking up and down my arms and wrapping around my fingers are proof that the ambient magic in the air is drawn directly to me.

There are definitely other magic users here tonight, and there’s no doubt that they’re noticing.

I tug a little harder on the energy and power shimmering all around me and conjure a slight breeze to ruffle the long locks of my hair. A little well-placed drama and flair never hurt anyone.

Some nights I prefer a human bar, where I can lie low without any demons or fae sizing me up, licking their chops as they imagine all the ways they can use my magic or my ass. But other nights it’s the lascivious, objectifying energy that I crave. And tonight is one of those.

It’s been months since I last came by Full Moon.

Not since I was being chased and harassed by that merry band of morons owned by some demon with big horns and an even bigger ego.

So, if I do a quick glance around as I make my way up to the bar, it’s only because I’m making sure they’ve held up their end of the bargain to leave me alone.

It would be unbearably obnoxious to find that big, bald, overly muscled gargoyle leering at me from some dark corner of the bar.

I don’t even remember his name.

Atlas.

… or something. Who knows.

And the only reason he’s crossed my mind at all since that mess with the dragon and the cursed amulet was resolved is because there’s a very small part of me that’s curious about whether what they say about gargoyle… ahem… anatomy is true.

But no gargoyles here tonight. At least not from what I can tell. Definitely no Atlas, if that’s even his name.

What I do see is a wolf shifter who’s practically drooling over me at the end of the bar.

It might be fun with the full moon only a few days away.

I’ve only been here five minutes though, and I’m nowhere near ready to commit to my entertainment for the night.

So, I return the wolf’s gaze with a noncommittal smile to let him know it’s a maybe, then snag an empty barstool.

The bartender is a tiny woman with pink hair styled in a pixie cut and a row of piercings along her bottom lip.

Without the supernatural sense of smell that shifters and the other more beastly creatures enjoy, I can only guess what she is.

A witch, maybe? An actual pixie? Could be a demon with a hell of a glamour, but even when I squint, I can’t see the telltale shimmer.

It doesn’t really matter; I’m just being nosy anyway.

She tilts her head and arches an eyebrow in a wordless prompt for me to go ahead and order.

“Something strong.”

“Coming right up,” she purrs with an accent I can’t place.

While I wait, I scan the bar again, looking for someone to fuck or anyone in possession of a magical object that’s too dangerous to be in circulation. An orgasm or a righteous robbery, I’m not picky, but neither’s catching my eye at the moment.

The bartender returns, setting a shot glass in front of me full of a glowing purple liquid with a distinct smell of magic, even to my unimpressive nose. It fizzes when I pick it up.

“Salut,” I murmur, holding it up in her direction before downing it in a single gulp.

It burns on its way down my throat and goes straight to my head. The room starts to spin before I can even set the glass back down, and I wobble in my seat.

She giggles. “You did say you wanted strong.”

I wheeze a laugh, the burn still lingering in my throat and on my tongue. “I did.”

“Another?” She arches that pencil-thin eyebrow again.

I hesitate for just a second. But fuck it, what’s the harm in getting wasted every once in a while?

I have a place right around the block, and maybe another drink will lower my standards enough that someone in here will be appealing tonight.

The wolf is still an option, but they do tend to be rather slobbery, and this close to the full moon, a knot is almost guaranteed.

I wince at the memory of how long it took my ass to heal the last time I went down that road.

Another disadvantage to being a human mage.

Sure, I can make a healing salve, but nothing beats the freaky healing powers some other supes have.

The bartender sets another shot in front of me, and I down it just as fast, sputtering a cough this time, and gripping the bar top with my free hand to keep myself from falling off my stool.

“What do I owe you?” I rasp, reaching for my wallet.

She smiles again and waves dismissively. “On the house.”

I frown. Is she hitting on me? I typically prefer men, but I’m not opposed to a woman every now and again…

assuming she even is a woman. You can’t always be sure about these things, of course.

If she is trying to get in my pants, she’s playing coy, flitting away right after she tells me there’s no charge.

Weird. I’m not going to complain about free drinks though.

Now that my brain feels nice and fuzzy and my body is relaxed enough that the caress of magic is starting to feel… sensual, I swivel in my seat to really consider my options.

Hot demon with big horns and no shirt? Definitely sexy, but demons are usually so bossy in bed. I don’t think I’m in the mood to play any dominance-submission games tonight.

Another group of what look like wolf shifters? All gorgeous in a feral way. But I think I’ve decided it’s a no to the knot tonight.

A vamp shoots me a toothy smile, flashing full fang in my direction. Now there’s a definite option. Assuming he’s willing to let me borrow some of his energy in exchange for a taste of my blood. I sigh inwardly. I’m more interested in an energy exchange than sex with him. Probably not ideal.

Ugh, why isn’t anyone here getting my blood pumping? It’s been months since I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. I should be panting to go home with a literal troll at this point, and they have some serious hygiene issues.

I can feel whatever was in that drink burning its way through my veins now, making me even looser and more relaxed. My brain isn’t just fuzzy now, it’s mushy. Each thought feels like slogging through knee-high mud.

I giggle to myself at that analogy and wobble in my seat.

Wobble. That’s a funny word. Wobble, wobble. I laugh again. And then my eyes land on a man.

Helloooo.

He’s bald, which totally doesn’t make me think about Atlas.

Nope. His shoulders are broad and his jaw is chiseled like he’s made of stone, and when he meets my gaze across the bar, a tingle snakes down my spine.

For a second, my sluggish, drunk brain interprets the feeling as a warning, some primal part of me signaling danger.

Pathetic that I haven’t gotten laid in so long that my body is mistaking attraction for fear.

He stares at me blankly, and it takes me several seconds to send the signal from my fuzzy brain to my face to smile at him.

I hope I’m giving him “do me” eyes and not “I might be sick” eyes.

He stands up from his chair, his movements a little rigid, and heads in my direction.

Score, I definitely nailed the “do me” eyes.

As he gets closer, there’s something about him that reminds me of the bartender.

Where did she go, anyway? I could really use another drink.

I can’t put my finger on it though. Maybe it’s just that I can’t tell what he is, like I couldn’t with her.

There’s no shimmer of a glamour or any hint of magic, none of the telltale signs I’ve learned to distinguish other supes with.

But this place is invisible to anyone who isn’t one of us, so he must be something I’m not as familiar with.

“Hey,” I say as he gets close, standing up from my stool and immediately stumbling into him. I laugh and brace my hands against his large, firm chest. “You got a name, sexy?”

“Come,” he grunts, wrapping his hand around my bicep roughly.

I giggle again and stumble after him. “Ooookay.”

That’s fine, I wasn’t really looking for a deep conversation anyway. His grip is a little hard though. I try to tug my arm out of his grasp, but he tightens his hold, digging his fingers into my skin until I can feel bruises starting to bloom.

“Ouch,” I yelp, instinctively reaching for the magic in the air so I can scorch this motherfucker’s hand right off me. But nothing happens. “What the fuck?” I mutter, yanking my arm again and trying to dig my heels into the ground.

He’s too strong though, and he’s dragging me right out the door before I even have the chance to scream.

As soon as we’re out the door, the bar vanishes behind a glamour, leaving us standing in the pitch darkness all alone.

I should have absorbed enough energy and magic inside to be able to use it, but when I try to gather it again, I come up empty.

This can’t be happening.

What the fuck was in that drink?

“Okay, okay. Chill, dude. I’m powerful. Like, really powerful.

I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but that bartender bitch must have slipped me something.

My point is you don’t want to hurt me. My magic will be back soon, and then I can give you anything you want.

I can conjure shit like you’ve never seen.

And I have connections. You want rare objects?

Money? A sit-down with a powerful demon?

Anything you want, I can make it happen, just don’t… ”

He reaches into his pocket, and I flail against his hold again, damn near ripping my arm out of its socket trying to get loose. I’m not drunk anymore, I just feel sick and fucking powerless.

This can’t be happening.

It has to be a dream. A nightmare. But it can’t be real.

This Frankenstein’s Monster motherfucker pulls a handful of purple powder out of his pocket, and I recognize it instantly.

“No, no, no!”

The last thing I see is a cloud of purple dust before it all goes black.